"Going from bad to worse, sir," came the answer. Dyer was more than a pessimist; he was not content merely to look on the dark side of things, but associated himself with every bit of shadow he could find.
"I don't see how that can be. People may give up meat, they may reduce their clothing; but they must have bread," replied George.
"But they don't want nearly so much as they used to," said Dyer bitterly, "and they looks at anything nowadays avore they takes it. When I started business a healthy working man would finish off two loaves a day; and one's as much as he can manage now. The human race ain't improving, sir; 'tis dying out, I fancy. They used to be thankful vor anything I sold 'em, but now if they finds a button, or a beetle, or a dead mouse in the bread—and the dough will fall over on the floor sometimes—they sends the loaf back and asks vor another gratis. And the population is dwindling away to nought."
"According to the census—" began George.
"Don't you believe in censuses," cried the horrified Dyer. "That's dirty work, sir. Government has a hand in that. If me and you wur the only two left in Highfield parish, they'd put us down, sir, as four hundred souls."
"You have a big sale for your cakes and doughnuts," George suggested.
"I loses on 'em," said the dreary Dyer.
"Then why do you make them?"
"I suppose, sir, 'tis a habit I've got into."
"My uncle used to say he had never tasted better cakes than yours."